Less
by TheSaintRyan
Summary: He returned, finally, after five days. The sound of rattling bones signaled his arrival once again. Hitler's perfect man. A devil in black leather with ice eyes. Rosary beads hung around The man's neck, the irony of which was not lost on the captured...


Daze.

That's what he felt. Dazed. He couldn't move, all he could do was crumple to the floor as something hard connected with the back of his head. As he was hit. As he was attacked.

Even though the worst hadn't arrived, he swears that part of him died that very second. When he woke up he was lying on the floor. It was dirty, dusty. It seemed it hadn't been cleaned in years. Like it was abandoned. Like he was abandoned. Like he was alone. No parents, not anymore. They left, just ran off together and _he_ was left to fend for himself. He was left to die. Pale, venom-green eyes gaze around but find nothing apart from the darkness. Nothingness. Doom. Crimson hair falls over the venom eyes as he looks back to the floor. The dust. The worst was coming, and arrived with the sound of rattling bones.

"Where am I?" Chapped lips opened in question. Lips chapped from cigarettes perching between them. "Who's there?" No reply was spoken, but he saw a new kind of darkness approach him. It was the lightest darkness he'd seen, it was a human form, wearing all black. Leather. Two boots stood in front of him, and he followed them up thin legs to a tight, corseted fly. His attacker was a man. His savior was a man. The man stood. Venom eyes traveled upwards, an exposed midriff, light blonde hairs trailing lightly down from a bellybutton. This pale flesh was blinding, in the darkness. Ghostly. Eyes traveled higher, a black corseted vest. Thin arms and bony shoulders. A taut neck and thin face. Ice eyes, blue eyes. Corn silk-yellow hair in a chin-length bob, bangs straight across half an inch above ice eyes. The man looked rather bored, almost complacent, and _he_ thought that The man may have even been pretty. The man would make a decent woman.

"Don't say anything." Came a voice from pink lips. Straight white teeth and beet tongue. Hollowed throat and healthy, pink lungs. "If you speak again out of turn I will hurt you." Venom eyes gazed at the trail of light blonde hairs, a river from the naval leading to an assumed ocean of a similar colour.

"Can I have a cigarette?" Came the unusually calm reply from cracked lips. From off-white, yellowed teeth. From smokers' lungs. The man snickered, and the boot was soon in contact with yellowed teeth. How he managed to lose none was beyond him, though as he sprawled backwards on the dust, not much else was within his grasp. He choked out a cry and The man scoffed, before leaving. He was alone, again. For how long? How long before the man would return?

Days.

He waited and waited for the man to return, sleeping on and off. But still, the worst had yet to come.

He returned, finally, after five days. The sound of rattling bones signaled his arrival once again. Hitler's perfect man. A devil in black leather with ice eyes. Rosary beads hung around The man's neck, the irony of which was not lost on the captured, and gloves covered what were assumed to be thin hands. Long hands. The man smelled of chocolate. Of sweat. He looked up, venom met ice and a scoff was sent his way. "Before you speak out of turn again, don't. You know I'm not joking around." The words were harsh. Such harsh words flying from lips as pretty and pink as The man's seemed wrong. Seemed right.

The man let his ice eyes travel down to the venom gazing at him. "What's your name?" Venom was hidden for a short time as he laughed, and finally said "You kidnapped me and don't even know who I am?"

He met another kick, this to his side. A cry flew from his smokers' lungs into the stale air in the room as he felt a snap and a searing pain in his rib. It wasn't his first broken rib, but he was always surprised when they snapped. "Ma-" He stopped. What was his name? "Matt." That name. It's his. The only thing he truly owned, truly had in the world was his own name. His name.

The man scoffed. "You're lying but I'll call you Matt anyway," his ice eyes had penetrated Matt's venom, and seen through his façade, "Call me Mello, if we're giving up fake names. And don't forget it either. You'll need it soon enough." Mello finished his speech with a cryptic smirk and turned, walking away. He paused before the door, though, and turned. "I almost forgot." Something flew through the air and landed just infront of Matt, rolling a short distance and bumping into his knees. The white object glared at him evilly, and Matt began laughing again, now shallow in fear of aggravating his rib. Matt picked up the cigarette and placed it between his chapped lips, before feeling his pockets. "Hey you got a light?"

The question was heard only by the stale air, and Matt chuckled, staring at the place where Mello's ice eyes had been as he had thrown the carcinogen.

Matt lay back down, and was soon asleep. And still, the worst was yet to come.

Eyes open to blinding light. Open to a meadow with bright blue sky and no clouds and a light breeze and bright sunshine. A forest is a short distance away, consisting of spruce and maple and elm. All with leaves of light yellow. A pond sits mere inches from the lithe form of a boy. Blood hair hides venom eyes and chapped lips wrap and twist themselves around a cigarette. The boy wears dark jeans, boots to his mid-calf. The boy wears a long sleeved shirt, red and black stripes, and a vest. A light tan suede vest with fur trim. A high collar barely evades burn from the cigarette. The boy wears white goggles with yellow lenses over his eyes, his peripheral vision is gone. In his hands is an old-school gameboy. He hears the familiar chime and sees the familiar bit characters, though he can't remember the name.

The scene is described as calm, mellow, quiet, and relaxing. The boy hates it because it's outside, and he prefers the dark confines of his room.

Only now the blue pond is ice. The sky is ice. The trees are bare, and reduced to shiny black silhouettes standing among a white earth. His crimson hair glistens with the snow. Glistens, wet with blood from the back of his head. The sun drops suddenly and it's night, the moon is new and the clouds are dark and heavy. The breeze has halted and everything is still. Only the light smoke rising from his lips moves, his gameboy gone and replaced with a chain.

The boy suddenly grows very old and can no longer support the chain, and it's big. Bigger than the dark silhouette trees. Bigger than the ice pond.

The boy is crushed beneath them all.

Eyes open to stale air and stale darkness. The boy, with his crimson hair no longer wet but matted with dried blood from another time in another world outside the walls, stares to the ceiling he cannot see. Laying on his back, and begins laughing. He laughs for nearly ten minutes and then he's crying, and he can't stop. It's a vicious cycle, as he laughs at himself for crying and cries because everything hurts and he is lost.

Lost inside of a building, a forest of black, a city of stale, a safari of empty.

The sound of rattling bones signals the arrival of the devil. Of Mello. The devil in black leather. The devil in black leather. The pale skin shines in the dark, scarce light somehow finding and reflecting from it. As if it spent all the time searching for this one thing to reflect from and make shine.

"You need a shower, come on." The words are spoken as if Mello is bored, bored of this game and wishes Matt to clean up and leave, to not return. "I turned off all the lights in the house for you, so you won't be blinded. Ten days in this dark."

Matt laughs and cries and gets up to follow the older man. The rest of the house is unimpressive, from what Matt can see. As if Mello didn't want it to be homely. As if it isn't his home. As if it isn't anyone's home. The bathroom is equally mediocre, a bathtub/shower, a toilet, and a sink. No towels, no hair products or perfumes or colognes. Nothing. Matt tries to strip off his shirt but can't seem to raise his arms, Mello scoffs and says, "Do I have to do everything for you?" He pulls off the leather gloves, and his hands are long and thin and bony and pale. His hands are intrusive as he slowly pulls off the red and black striped garment, unbuttons and unzips the boy's fly, and pulls the rest of his clothing off. Matt would try to cover himself, but he simply had no energy to care. He was feeling dizzy and nauseous and needed a cigarette.

He needed music.

The hissing sound of water passing through metal awoke him from his musings, and with a small amount of help from the older man, Matt maneuvered himself into the shower, choosing to sit and aim the water at himself rather than stand. Intrusive hands rub water into his hair, rub away matted clots of blood. He can feel the cut reopening and the water sting it like bees rushing onto his head. He can feel the hard, uncaring roughness in Mello's touch. He can feel the soft gentleness, as if he is something to not break. Worth something. Priceless. The shampoo stings more. Hornets now, not bees. Once his hair is relatively clean, he can feel the hard uncaring roughness in Mello's touch as he rubs the younger boy's body with soap. Can feel the gentle care taken near his broken rib.

Matt's never felt so hated. Matt has never felt so loved. He finds himself smirking, and relaxing to Mello's warm, calming touch. He finds himself asleep once again, and his dreams are of a corn silk-yellow sun above and ice blue sky. Black thickets of trees are penetrated by the sight of a field of pale white wildflowers and beneath that, black thickets of bushes.

Eyes open to darkness. The soft smell of peaches reaches his nose from crimson hair. Venom eyes look around, expecting to find the older man still in the room. Matt laughed, and felt around for the cigarette that'd been thrown at him previously. He finds it in his pockets, and finds a matchbook pregnant with a single match on the floor infront of him.

He needed this. He gladly smoked.

No concept of time is left in the blood-haired boy's fragile mind. In his head he plays his favourite songs on repeat until he can't bear to listen to them, and then plays them some more because even less can he bear the silence. The harsh ringing in his ears has been his only companion for a number of days now, Mello having seemingly forgotten about his victim altogether. Hopes of an escape soon had discandied from the boy's mind, and he began to feel his end was near. It had been nearly two weeks since his last meal, though he was used to a very, very restricted diet. His thirst, both for water and another cigarette, was burning away at him, and if he'd tried to speak he was sure it would have come out a gravel and dust whisper, if that.

But then, as if by miracle, the sound of rattling bones deafens the young man and causes him to fling himself upward, momentarily forgetting about his healing rib and rebreaking it in one move. A primal shriek removes itself from his lungs and Mello seems unconcerned.

"Having fun?"

Through venom eyes blazing with tears and heat, Matt gazes up at the other male. The ironic rosary beads are gone, and Matt can now see a faint glow from blood dripping from Mello's mouth. Even the devil can be harmed, he thinks.

Matt coughs and a new surge of pain causes a whimper. Before he knows what's happening Mello is close to him and he smells of pine and of sweat, and always of chocolate. Mello wastes no time in stripping Matt of his shirt and checking to see what is causing so much pain. The concern brought on by both the thought of loosing his pet and of the harsh contrast to the indifference the first time his rib had broken.

As soon as the cloth aegis is removed Mello understands. The rib has now completely snapped and pokes from between the skin. Fresh blood oozes lightly and Mello laughs. "You have bad luck, don't you?"

The humor is lost on Matt, as his venom eyes are secluded behind dirty eyelids and tears flow freely from them.

He heals nicely and it's now been seven weeks since his kidnapping. His saving. His isolation and his freedom.

Mello returns and checks the younger boy's side for pain. He is satisfied and there is great trepidation involved when Mello picks up and carries through the house the blood-haired boy. Even though he could have done it himself Matt doesn't protest Mello washing him once again. He relaxes into the touch and even smiles when his hair is washed, in silence. "Why won't you talk to me?" Matt asks quietly, because if he speaks any louder he's sure his unused throat will crack. Silence greets his whisper and his temper flares. "I've had nothing but silence and darkness for I don't know how long and now you won't even talk to me? At least say something mean so I don't feel…" He pauses, as he realizes his face isn't wet from the bath. "So alone." He concludes, and is met with silence.

Matt realizes there is something familiar in the cold, unfeeling touch that Mello brings him, and it brings to light that there is something familiar about the cornsilk-haired man altogether.

Matt isn't sure which familiarity bothers him more, but neither leave gently without much unsettling, and many hours of, thought.

Matt lounges on a couch, watching TV and Mello closes the door and heads out to do shopping. When Mello returns, Matt will cook a meal and they will sit in silence, eat in silence, clean in silence, and then sleep.

Matt wakes up on the cold, dusty floor. These dreams of freedom but not from Mello plague him every night that Mello isn't seen. When Mello does arrive, bringing a small meal or a shower or a single cigarette, Matt's dreams are far more cryptic.

He needs this, he knows. He needs Mello.

The sound of rattling bones brings The devil in black leather back to the venom eyed field of perception. "On your feet" says Mello, and Matt complies. "Come with me."

They enter a bedroom. Matt is raped.

Subtly, the clues left for Matt are picked up, too late.

He had needed the name indeed.

No longer confined to the room. It has been three months since he'd gone missing. Since he'd been taken. And though the house, and the door by proxy, is open to him, Matt cannot will himself to leave. Mello and him need each other. Or maybe Matt just needs the other.

Matt still smokes. Matt still listens to his music. Everything is better now.

Matt still needs the name every night. No longer is it rape.

Matt is not as he once was. Matt is not as he has been.

But, Matt wonders, where can this go? He is free to leave at any time.

Well, not by himself. He is imprisoned only by his own unwillingness to leave.

So what can happen now?

Mello is always a man who has a plan.

Matt speaks to Mello and is not kicked, is not hurt. Matt asks Mello where they are going.

They have been driving from place to place on Mello's motorcycle for nine days. They stop in cities and spend the night in hotels. Mello seems to have connections everywhere; they never seem to run out of money. Cheap gas station breakfast and a dinner, maybe if they're lucky, at another gas station. Breakfast miles behind. Matt sits behind Mello on the motorcycle with his arms locked around the older males stomach. Matt is glad for his goggles, his eyes don't sting with the ferocious wind. Sometimes they drive all night and most of the day. Matt gently sleeps against Mello's back.

They arrive at a new house. Equally empty. Recently empty. Smaller than the last, but better. More homely. It's like an actual house and not a movie set. Matt feels claustrophobic staying in the same place for more than a few hours of sleep. Matt never once questions their many miles traveled. Mello is not one to be questioned. He has a plan; he has a motive. There's no reason in Matt's mind to doubt the other male.

Matt hasn't spoken a single word to anyone except Mello in almost a year. And he's only known Mello for four months. His loneliness remedied by a Devil in black leather. The rosary beads still a stark contrast to the nickname given in thoughts. A scar is left on Matt's side from the broken rib. He says it is ugly, but Mello tells him that scars are beautiful.

Matt finds it hard to believe Mello. Nothing about him could be beautiful. Blood hair and venom eyes. Milk skin and thin frame. Matt envies Mello. Tall and blonde, ice blue eyes. Confidence and arrogance and strength. Mello is beautiful.

Matt awakens from a nightmare and realizes he is alone. The bed is occupied only by himself and he feels fear savagely rip epinephrine from his body. He is soaked in sweat within minutes as he panics. He coughs and it echoes and he is alone. Everything he says echoes. The rooms are infinite and connected by labyrinthine halls. Matt calls out.

"Am I alone in these hallways?"

'always'

Matt wakes up again. The bed is soaking wet and Mello looks at him, concerned. "Nightmare?" The older boy is not satisfied and gets out of the bed, takes Matt with him. While Matt takes a shower Mello changes the sheets and cleans the sweat-soaked blankets. While Matt keeps the water cold to wake himself up, Mello acts like a father and takes care of the younger boy.

Mello makes coffee and is the only one to drink it. Matt sits in quiet, his music pounding bass and electronic riffs in his ears. His goggles are on- peripheral lost, and he feels safe.

The blonde man drinks a third cup of coffee and then grabs Matt's hand. They walk out of the house and take off toward the city. Though it's nearly four in the morning, the city is alive. They spend their time until daybreak dancing in clubs to Matt's kind of music. Matt is rolling hard, and it feels like home. As he begins to fall from his high, they take off again on the motorcycle. It is time to leave this place, and the two of them grab their few belongings and take off again.

Three weeks later they've eaten maybe four complete meals and arrive at the original house.

Matt wonders why they must travel back and forth so many miles, and Mello's answer is simple. "I'm a wanted man." Matt knows it isn't for his kidnapping. Mello knows it's for murder.

But Mello is well connected and likes to travel. He is the definition of traveling light. He has only one outfit and a jacket, a seemingly unlimited debit card, and five keys. One for his motorcycle, one for each of the two houses they've visited, and the other two unknown.

Matt has his one outfit, at least one pack of cigarettes at all times, his music, a gameboy, and a small knife. Matt has near nothing but it seems like so much compared to his companion. He wonders why it's only the two of them. Over a cup of coffee that the two men share, with a bit of chocolate added by Mello, Matt asks if he is the first to travel with the blonde man.

Mello grows cold and before he speaks again only the coffee matches his frigid demeanor. "I'm going to bed."

Why, then, does he walk out the front door?

Matt waits for a few hours and then sleeps. Matt waits for a few days and then finally makes something to eat. Mello returns a week after leaving. He has a bruise below his left eye and a jagged cut on his chest from one clavicle to the other. Mello acts as if he never left, and doesn't speak of his week away. Matt doesn't question. He is overwhelmingly gratified that Mello returned.

They never tell their real names, because they aren't necessary. That isn't who they are anymore. They leave again and head in a new direction. They forge a new path, and escape from Mello's mysterious past, from Matt's empty history. They travel together.


End file.
